Maybe It's For The Best 2/2
Part 1
A month later
Sam listens to his dad on the phone as he brushes his teeth. He pauses, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, and he leans against the bathroom door. It sounds like Dean's magically-cure-Sammy plan isn't going very well, judging by the exasperated noises their dad is making.
"We can get Bobby to look into it… yes, I'm well aware that me and Bobby aren't on the best of terms but this is about Sam… no, I don't think so… he seems better lately, yeah, he's eating fine, getting around fine… look, Dean-o, just come back to Palo Alto, okay?... because Sam needs you here… Dean… Dean, that's an order… good, I'll see you in a couple of days."
Sam hears footsteps coming in his direction and he tiptoes back to the sink and pretends he's been brushing his teeth the whole time. The door pops open and his dad sticks his head around.
"You doing okay in here?" he asks.
Sam spits into the sink, then looks at John in the mirror. "I'm just brushing my teeth," he says. "I'm fine. Would you mind knocking next time?"
"Sure," John says, breaking out into a sly grin. "So long as you quit eavesdropping on my phone calls."
And he disappears again, clicking the door shut behind him. Sam blinks at himself in the mirror. How the hell did he know that he was listening in? God, he swears his dad knows everything. He rinses his mouth and spits, then dabs his mouth dry on the towel hanging to his right.
He inspects his reflection. His dad is right that he's been better lately, there's no blue tinge around his mouth anymore and he doesn't look so tired these days. It's been really helpful having his dad around almost all the time. Miraculously they haven't bitten each other's heads of yet. In fact, it's been kinda nice. He feels safe when he goes to sleep at night, that's for sure.
The tube running under his nose is something he can't really get used to, the one giveaway that he's sick sits smack bang in the centre of his face. He wishes it wasn't there because everyone on the street stares, even other students in class. It's worse with waitresses or shop assistants who fuss over him like he's mentally deficient. But he kinda needs the tube there to breathe and, you know, not die.
He's feeling a little giddy when he leaves the bathroom and says, "So Dean's coming back?"
"He's on his way," John confirms, sorting through some cash at the kitchen table. Sam had asked his dad where the money came from but he hadn't gotten a straight answer. He hadn't bothered asking about it again.
"We could go to that diner we went to the other week," Sam suggests. "I reckon he'd like it there, especially that redhead waitress."
"We could do that," his dad agrees, smiling. Sam gins back because, fading mortality or not, he feels like a real family for the first time in, well, ever. It's great, even if he's clinging onto his scholarship by the tips of his fingers, and he's sharing a tiny apartment with his dad, he feels normal.
His dad gets to his feet and grabs a few bills off the table, shovelling the rest back into a paper bag that he keeps under the kitchen sink, and pats Sam on the shoulder. "I'm going to the store, okay? I'll be back soon."
Sam waves him out the door and sinks down onto the couch, flipping open one of his school text books. He pauses mid-paragraph when he sees his dad's duffel lying unopened with his journal sticking out. The Journal. The one Sam and Dean are rarely allowed near, and can barely decipher when they are.
He places his text book down on the couch seat beside him and leans forward to snatch up the journal. It's a bulky thing, crammed with scrawled writing and newspaper clippings. He lingers at the front of the book where a photo of his mother is clipped. Dean looks a lot like her, he looks a lot like the perfect mix of her and their dad. Sometimes, Sam wishes he looked a little more like his parents. He doesn't have any clue where he got his eyes from, certainly not Mom or Dad. He flips through the journal, scanning whatever grabs his interest.
He stops when he lands on a small entry under the date his brother and dad first arrived.
Feb 17.
Maybe it's for the best.
And that's it. Sam re-reads it a few times, just in case there's some hidden message he missed. Nothing. What the hell does that mean? That has to be about him, right?
Maybe it's for the best.
Maybe what's for the best? Maybe it's for the best that Dean left to find a cure or maybe it's for the best that John stays and Dean goes. Or maybe it's for the best that Sam is dying. Suddenly, that perfect, limited existence that Sam had is gone. Suddenly, Sam doesn't feel so safe anymore.
....
Dean lets himself into Sam's apartment. He expects yelling, he expects Sam and John at each other's throats, he doesn't expect silence. John has his nose in his journal, sitting at the table in the kitchenette, Sam is lounging on his bed with a book on his lap and a tube running under his nose.
"This is… civil," Dean remarks. Sam looks up and smiles.
"Hey," he greets, he looks relieved. Dean glances over to his dad, takes in the peace and quiet in the room, and wonders what's happened.
"Uh, hey," he replies, dropping his bag by the door. "How you doing, Sammy?"
Sam shrugs. "Still breathing," he says, eyes flicking over to John briefly. "Come on, let's go out for dinner."
Dean blinks. "Go out?" he repeats, Sam is already getting up, slipping the strap of the oxygen tank over his shoulder.
"Yeah," Sam says like Dean's stupid. "You know, like a diner. There's this one place you'll like down the street."
"Uh, okay," Dean shrugs. "Let's go then."
Sam is already opening the door, not even glancing back to check if their dad is coming. Sam waits for him by the impala while Dean waits for his dad to catch up.
"Is everything okay?" he asks John quietly.
His dad shrugs. "He's been acting weird for the past couple of days, won't look me in the eye, seems jumpy."
"Huh," Dean sighs. "I'll talk to him."
Their waitress is this super-hot redhead with plump pink lip-glossed lips, and one of the greatest cleavages Dean has ever encountered. Sam nudges him when he stares too long, but the waitress doesn't seem to mind and writes her phone number on his napkin when she brings his burger, which is also goddamned delicious.
He waits for John to go to the bathroom before talking to Sam.
"You okay, dude?" he asks.
"Yeah," Sam nods. He seems worse than he was back at the apartment, pale and wheezing a little.
"Something happen with you and Dad?"
Sam's eyes go straight down to the table. Gotcha, Dean thinks. He's not surprised that his dad did something to upset Sam without even noticing. Sam's a little sensitive like that.
"What happened with Dad?" he asks.
Sam purses his lips together, thinking. He hasn't seen Sam this wound up over their Dad in a long time.
"I don't…" Sam pauses, "Okay. I read his journal."
Dean shrugs, it's not like he hasn't done that plenty of times himself.
"Under the date that you guys first showed up here he wrote, maybe it's for the best," he stops and looks at Dean, waiting for an answer or a reaction. Dean isn't sure he follows.
Sam sighs and goes on. "He's talking about me. Maybe it's for the best that I'm sick, that I'm dying."
Dean is speechless. For a second he isn't sure if he heard correctly, but Sam is looking at him with this anxious look on his face as he waits for an answer. Dean sighs.
"Sammy, I know you're kinda oxygen deprived a lot of the time now, and maybe that big brain of yours is a little slow or something," he says, "But Dad isn't glad that you're sick, alright?"
"But why would he write that?" Sam demands, his breaths are shorter now.
"You're just thinking too much," Dean brushes it off. "You're tired and sick, but there's nothing to worry about. I bet by the time you wake up in the morning you'll be laughing about it. I mean, come on, Sam, this is ridiculous."
Sam shrinks back into the booth, looking away from Dean, he looks hurt and his eyes are glossy. Sam blinks rapidly and turns away to discreetly wipe at his eyes. Dean rubs his brother's back in sympathy, the poor kid is really tired.
"Sorry I skipped out on you," Dean says softly. "I know I should have stuck around least to tell you I'd be gone, it's just that I'd never forgive myself if I didn't try to do something."
"It's okay, I get it," Sam shrugs. "Just… don't leave again, okay?"
"I won't," Dean promises.
"So, how was the search for the miracle cure?" Sam asks.
"I will find something, Sam, I promise."
Sam looks at him sadly. "I know.
....
Four months later
There's this pager Sam has to keep on him at all times now. If he's lucky enough for some poor stranger to die, then the pager will go off and he can go get a new heart and set of lungs.
Things have gotten worse.
It started not long after Dean first came back, not long after Sam had told Dean about his fears and Dean had just brushed it off like it was nothing. Sam doesn't exactly remember what happened, but he remembers waking up in hospital with a tube sticking out of his mouth. They took it out pretty quick, put the mask back over his face.
Dean kept going on about how everything would be fine and that he would find a way to fix everything. The doctor begged to differ and told Sam that he was now on the critical list for a transplant, which basically meant that Sam's time was seriously running out.
Where Dean was holding back tears, his dad was actually crying.
Maybe it's for the best.
And maybe it is. Once Sam is gone, the two of them can go back to saving the world instead of taking care of Sam, who is no longer able to get up and take a piss by himself. At least he was allowed to come home, his apartment may be small but it's his. He'd much rather die here than in a hospital. School is out of the question, of course, they're putting Sam's scholarship and schooling on hold. He reckons they're just being nice to a dying kid when they know he's never going to graduate anyway.
He's lying in bed, because that's all he can to now, with the full mask over his mouth, because that's how it is these days, and he stares at the pager and imagines it going off.
Dean is cooking in the kitchen even though no matter what he's making Sam won't be able to eat much of it. Their dad is sitting on the couch, in the middle of his hundredth phone call of the day trying to find a cure. For a guy who think maybe it's for the best, he sure puts a lot of effort into keeping Sam living.
"Want mushroom in your pasta sauce, Sammy?" Dean calls. Sam isn't sure why he bothers asking when he knows Sam hasn't got much breath left for talking. He just holds his thumb up, even though he's not bothered about mushrooms in his pasta sauce. He closes his eyes for a moment, lets himself drift.
Dean shakes him, a little too hard because he probably thought Sam bit it in his sleep. He lets out a heavy breath when Sam opens his eyes and says, "Soup's on."
Sam nods and lets Dean help him sit upright. He lets him spoon a couple of pieces of pasta into his mouth before turning away and pulling the mask back down.
"Come on, Sammy," Dean pleads, "You need your strength. You're too thin."
Sam laughs on the inside because there's not enough breath left to do it on the outside. He pushes the hand holding the fork away. Dean reluctantly sets the bowl down on the bedside table.
"You want to go back to sleep?" he asks quietly, smoothing out the sheets.
Sam shakes his head, mimics writing with his hands.
"You want to… write?"
Yes.
Dean fetches a pad and pen from Sam's unused desk and sets it down on his lap. Even writing is hard, even when it's just one word. He shows Dean the paper.
"Beach?" Dean reads, surprised. "You want to go to the beach?"
Sam nods.
Dean frowns, looking unsure. "I don't know, Sammy. Maybe that's not the best idea."
Sam grabs the front of Dean's shirt and looks at him pleadingly. He just wants to go outside; he just wants to see a freaking sunset over the ocean one last time. Please. Dean must get it because he nods, cards his fingers through Sam's hair and says, "Okay, Sammy."
Moving a seriously sick person two blocks over to the beach is difficult. Well, Sam assumes it is, he's not the one doing the heavy lifting anyway. Sam might weigh as much as a bag of bones these days, but John and Dean have to manoeuvre oxygen and all of the tubes that come with it. Dean has wrapped him up in his leather jacket, some sweats and two pairs of socks. Oxygen-deprivation can make a person a little chilly. They carry him as delicately as if he were a new-born and lay him out in the back seat of the Impala with his head on Dean's lap as their Dad drives.
One last drive, Sam thinks. He closes his eyes, smiling as he feels the engine rumble beneath them, it's like being home again. He doesn't remember arriving at the beach but when he opens his eyes he's being lifted out of the car and he can see the ocean.
They've found a secluded spot hidden by rock pools, and his dad and brother carefully place him down on the sand. John sits behind him, keeping him upright while Dean fusses about, tucking him into a wool blanket that's been in the Impala's trunk for as long as Sam can remember.
Dean pulls Sam's socks off when he notices Sam trying to dig his toes into the sand, then he sits down next to the two of them, leans in. Sam takes in a thin breath and smiles, watching the sun dip slowly down. The sky is bright orange and pink, lighting up the sky like it's on fire.
They sit there for a while, John and Dean talk as Sam listens to stories of hunts he missed, of times when they were young, they even talk about Mary. As Sam lies against his dad he wishes he could tell him that he forgives him, that if he meant what he wrote in his journal then he understands. He wonders if his dad has felt this uncleanliness in him as long as Sam has.
Maybe it's for the best.
If this is the end, Sam thinks it's a good way to go. That is, until there's a tight pain in his chest. He is so weak that it takes John and Dean a while to even notice something's wrong. He can barely lift a hand but he's trying to grip his chest. Then he's choking, and he can taste metal.
"Oh God!" Dean cries. He's being pushed onto his side and he coughs all over the sand, turning it red. Dean keeps yelling and Dad is holding his head, Sam thinks he's speaking to him but he can't really make out the words.
He turns his eyes to watch the sunset, the sun has almost disappeared. It's the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes. The last thing he feels is vibration in his front pocket, the last thing he hears is the beeper going off on the pager telling him he has a new heart and lungs. If he's lucky, he'll hold on a little longer. Maybe one day soon he'll wake up and breathe, Sam thinks.
Just breathe.
A month later
Sam listens to his dad on the phone as he brushes his teeth. He pauses, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, and he leans against the bathroom door. It sounds like Dean's magically-cure-Sammy plan isn't going very well, judging by the exasperated noises their dad is making.
"We can get Bobby to look into it… yes, I'm well aware that me and Bobby aren't on the best of terms but this is about Sam… no, I don't think so… he seems better lately, yeah, he's eating fine, getting around fine… look, Dean-o, just come back to Palo Alto, okay?... because Sam needs you here… Dean… Dean, that's an order… good, I'll see you in a couple of days."
Sam hears footsteps coming in his direction and he tiptoes back to the sink and pretends he's been brushing his teeth the whole time. The door pops open and his dad sticks his head around.
"You doing okay in here?" he asks.
Sam spits into the sink, then looks at John in the mirror. "I'm just brushing my teeth," he says. "I'm fine. Would you mind knocking next time?"
"Sure," John says, breaking out into a sly grin. "So long as you quit eavesdropping on my phone calls."
And he disappears again, clicking the door shut behind him. Sam blinks at himself in the mirror. How the hell did he know that he was listening in? God, he swears his dad knows everything. He rinses his mouth and spits, then dabs his mouth dry on the towel hanging to his right.
He inspects his reflection. His dad is right that he's been better lately, there's no blue tinge around his mouth anymore and he doesn't look so tired these days. It's been really helpful having his dad around almost all the time. Miraculously they haven't bitten each other's heads of yet. In fact, it's been kinda nice. He feels safe when he goes to sleep at night, that's for sure.
The tube running under his nose is something he can't really get used to, the one giveaway that he's sick sits smack bang in the centre of his face. He wishes it wasn't there because everyone on the street stares, even other students in class. It's worse with waitresses or shop assistants who fuss over him like he's mentally deficient. But he kinda needs the tube there to breathe and, you know, not die.
He's feeling a little giddy when he leaves the bathroom and says, "So Dean's coming back?"
"He's on his way," John confirms, sorting through some cash at the kitchen table. Sam had asked his dad where the money came from but he hadn't gotten a straight answer. He hadn't bothered asking about it again.
"We could go to that diner we went to the other week," Sam suggests. "I reckon he'd like it there, especially that redhead waitress."
"We could do that," his dad agrees, smiling. Sam gins back because, fading mortality or not, he feels like a real family for the first time in, well, ever. It's great, even if he's clinging onto his scholarship by the tips of his fingers, and he's sharing a tiny apartment with his dad, he feels normal.
His dad gets to his feet and grabs a few bills off the table, shovelling the rest back into a paper bag that he keeps under the kitchen sink, and pats Sam on the shoulder. "I'm going to the store, okay? I'll be back soon."
Sam waves him out the door and sinks down onto the couch, flipping open one of his school text books. He pauses mid-paragraph when he sees his dad's duffel lying unopened with his journal sticking out. The Journal. The one Sam and Dean are rarely allowed near, and can barely decipher when they are.
He places his text book down on the couch seat beside him and leans forward to snatch up the journal. It's a bulky thing, crammed with scrawled writing and newspaper clippings. He lingers at the front of the book where a photo of his mother is clipped. Dean looks a lot like her, he looks a lot like the perfect mix of her and their dad. Sometimes, Sam wishes he looked a little more like his parents. He doesn't have any clue where he got his eyes from, certainly not Mom or Dad. He flips through the journal, scanning whatever grabs his interest.
He stops when he lands on a small entry under the date his brother and dad first arrived.
Feb 17.
Maybe it's for the best.
And that's it. Sam re-reads it a few times, just in case there's some hidden message he missed. Nothing. What the hell does that mean? That has to be about him, right?
Maybe it's for the best.
Maybe what's for the best? Maybe it's for the best that Dean left to find a cure or maybe it's for the best that John stays and Dean goes. Or maybe it's for the best that Sam is dying. Suddenly, that perfect, limited existence that Sam had is gone. Suddenly, Sam doesn't feel so safe anymore.
....
Dean lets himself into Sam's apartment. He expects yelling, he expects Sam and John at each other's throats, he doesn't expect silence. John has his nose in his journal, sitting at the table in the kitchenette, Sam is lounging on his bed with a book on his lap and a tube running under his nose.
"This is… civil," Dean remarks. Sam looks up and smiles.
"Hey," he greets, he looks relieved. Dean glances over to his dad, takes in the peace and quiet in the room, and wonders what's happened.
"Uh, hey," he replies, dropping his bag by the door. "How you doing, Sammy?"
Sam shrugs. "Still breathing," he says, eyes flicking over to John briefly. "Come on, let's go out for dinner."
Dean blinks. "Go out?" he repeats, Sam is already getting up, slipping the strap of the oxygen tank over his shoulder.
"Yeah," Sam says like Dean's stupid. "You know, like a diner. There's this one place you'll like down the street."
"Uh, okay," Dean shrugs. "Let's go then."
Sam is already opening the door, not even glancing back to check if their dad is coming. Sam waits for him by the impala while Dean waits for his dad to catch up.
"Is everything okay?" he asks John quietly.
His dad shrugs. "He's been acting weird for the past couple of days, won't look me in the eye, seems jumpy."
"Huh," Dean sighs. "I'll talk to him."
Their waitress is this super-hot redhead with plump pink lip-glossed lips, and one of the greatest cleavages Dean has ever encountered. Sam nudges him when he stares too long, but the waitress doesn't seem to mind and writes her phone number on his napkin when she brings his burger, which is also goddamned delicious.
He waits for John to go to the bathroom before talking to Sam.
"You okay, dude?" he asks.
"Yeah," Sam nods. He seems worse than he was back at the apartment, pale and wheezing a little.
"Something happen with you and Dad?"
Sam's eyes go straight down to the table. Gotcha, Dean thinks. He's not surprised that his dad did something to upset Sam without even noticing. Sam's a little sensitive like that.
"What happened with Dad?" he asks.
Sam purses his lips together, thinking. He hasn't seen Sam this wound up over their Dad in a long time.
"I don't…" Sam pauses, "Okay. I read his journal."
Dean shrugs, it's not like he hasn't done that plenty of times himself.
"Under the date that you guys first showed up here he wrote, maybe it's for the best," he stops and looks at Dean, waiting for an answer or a reaction. Dean isn't sure he follows.
Sam sighs and goes on. "He's talking about me. Maybe it's for the best that I'm sick, that I'm dying."
Dean is speechless. For a second he isn't sure if he heard correctly, but Sam is looking at him with this anxious look on his face as he waits for an answer. Dean sighs.
"Sammy, I know you're kinda oxygen deprived a lot of the time now, and maybe that big brain of yours is a little slow or something," he says, "But Dad isn't glad that you're sick, alright?"
"But why would he write that?" Sam demands, his breaths are shorter now.
"You're just thinking too much," Dean brushes it off. "You're tired and sick, but there's nothing to worry about. I bet by the time you wake up in the morning you'll be laughing about it. I mean, come on, Sam, this is ridiculous."
Sam shrinks back into the booth, looking away from Dean, he looks hurt and his eyes are glossy. Sam blinks rapidly and turns away to discreetly wipe at his eyes. Dean rubs his brother's back in sympathy, the poor kid is really tired.
"Sorry I skipped out on you," Dean says softly. "I know I should have stuck around least to tell you I'd be gone, it's just that I'd never forgive myself if I didn't try to do something."
"It's okay, I get it," Sam shrugs. "Just… don't leave again, okay?"
"I won't," Dean promises.
"So, how was the search for the miracle cure?" Sam asks.
"I will find something, Sam, I promise."
Sam looks at him sadly. "I know.
....
Four months later
There's this pager Sam has to keep on him at all times now. If he's lucky enough for some poor stranger to die, then the pager will go off and he can go get a new heart and set of lungs.
Things have gotten worse.
It started not long after Dean first came back, not long after Sam had told Dean about his fears and Dean had just brushed it off like it was nothing. Sam doesn't exactly remember what happened, but he remembers waking up in hospital with a tube sticking out of his mouth. They took it out pretty quick, put the mask back over his face.
Dean kept going on about how everything would be fine and that he would find a way to fix everything. The doctor begged to differ and told Sam that he was now on the critical list for a transplant, which basically meant that Sam's time was seriously running out.
Where Dean was holding back tears, his dad was actually crying.
Maybe it's for the best.
And maybe it is. Once Sam is gone, the two of them can go back to saving the world instead of taking care of Sam, who is no longer able to get up and take a piss by himself. At least he was allowed to come home, his apartment may be small but it's his. He'd much rather die here than in a hospital. School is out of the question, of course, they're putting Sam's scholarship and schooling on hold. He reckons they're just being nice to a dying kid when they know he's never going to graduate anyway.
He's lying in bed, because that's all he can to now, with the full mask over his mouth, because that's how it is these days, and he stares at the pager and imagines it going off.
Dean is cooking in the kitchen even though no matter what he's making Sam won't be able to eat much of it. Their dad is sitting on the couch, in the middle of his hundredth phone call of the day trying to find a cure. For a guy who think maybe it's for the best, he sure puts a lot of effort into keeping Sam living.
"Want mushroom in your pasta sauce, Sammy?" Dean calls. Sam isn't sure why he bothers asking when he knows Sam hasn't got much breath left for talking. He just holds his thumb up, even though he's not bothered about mushrooms in his pasta sauce. He closes his eyes for a moment, lets himself drift.
Dean shakes him, a little too hard because he probably thought Sam bit it in his sleep. He lets out a heavy breath when Sam opens his eyes and says, "Soup's on."
Sam nods and lets Dean help him sit upright. He lets him spoon a couple of pieces of pasta into his mouth before turning away and pulling the mask back down.
"Come on, Sammy," Dean pleads, "You need your strength. You're too thin."
Sam laughs on the inside because there's not enough breath left to do it on the outside. He pushes the hand holding the fork away. Dean reluctantly sets the bowl down on the bedside table.
"You want to go back to sleep?" he asks quietly, smoothing out the sheets.
Sam shakes his head, mimics writing with his hands.
"You want to… write?"
Yes.
Dean fetches a pad and pen from Sam's unused desk and sets it down on his lap. Even writing is hard, even when it's just one word. He shows Dean the paper.
"Beach?" Dean reads, surprised. "You want to go to the beach?"
Sam nods.
Dean frowns, looking unsure. "I don't know, Sammy. Maybe that's not the best idea."
Sam grabs the front of Dean's shirt and looks at him pleadingly. He just wants to go outside; he just wants to see a freaking sunset over the ocean one last time. Please. Dean must get it because he nods, cards his fingers through Sam's hair and says, "Okay, Sammy."
Moving a seriously sick person two blocks over to the beach is difficult. Well, Sam assumes it is, he's not the one doing the heavy lifting anyway. Sam might weigh as much as a bag of bones these days, but John and Dean have to manoeuvre oxygen and all of the tubes that come with it. Dean has wrapped him up in his leather jacket, some sweats and two pairs of socks. Oxygen-deprivation can make a person a little chilly. They carry him as delicately as if he were a new-born and lay him out in the back seat of the Impala with his head on Dean's lap as their Dad drives.
One last drive, Sam thinks. He closes his eyes, smiling as he feels the engine rumble beneath them, it's like being home again. He doesn't remember arriving at the beach but when he opens his eyes he's being lifted out of the car and he can see the ocean.
They've found a secluded spot hidden by rock pools, and his dad and brother carefully place him down on the sand. John sits behind him, keeping him upright while Dean fusses about, tucking him into a wool blanket that's been in the Impala's trunk for as long as Sam can remember.
Dean pulls Sam's socks off when he notices Sam trying to dig his toes into the sand, then he sits down next to the two of them, leans in. Sam takes in a thin breath and smiles, watching the sun dip slowly down. The sky is bright orange and pink, lighting up the sky like it's on fire.
They sit there for a while, John and Dean talk as Sam listens to stories of hunts he missed, of times when they were young, they even talk about Mary. As Sam lies against his dad he wishes he could tell him that he forgives him, that if he meant what he wrote in his journal then he understands. He wonders if his dad has felt this uncleanliness in him as long as Sam has.
Maybe it's for the best.
If this is the end, Sam thinks it's a good way to go. That is, until there's a tight pain in his chest. He is so weak that it takes John and Dean a while to even notice something's wrong. He can barely lift a hand but he's trying to grip his chest. Then he's choking, and he can taste metal.
"Oh God!" Dean cries. He's being pushed onto his side and he coughs all over the sand, turning it red. Dean keeps yelling and Dad is holding his head, Sam thinks he's speaking to him but he can't really make out the words.
He turns his eyes to watch the sunset, the sun has almost disappeared. It's the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes. The last thing he feels is vibration in his front pocket, the last thing he hears is the beeper going off on the pager telling him he has a new heart and lungs. If he's lucky, he'll hold on a little longer. Maybe one day soon he'll wake up and breathe, Sam thinks.
Just breathe.